Practical Intelligence
by littlesoprano
Summary: Practical intelligence can't do anything to fix a broken heart.


**Disclaimer: **When Sherwood Schwartz dreamed up "Gilligan's Island" back in the 60s, I wasn't even a figment of imagination yet. Clearly, all the characters in this story are his creation, not mine. This is a strictly not-for-profit piece of fiction.

**Author's Notes:** Written for Im's "Triangles" challenge at the Sitcoms Online Gilligan fanfic board. **Special thanks to callensensei for the guidance and suggestions!**

**Practical Intelligence**

Skipper Jonas Grumby had never considered himself an intellectual man. Certainly no one would ever label him a genius like his fellow castaway, the Professor. Even so, he had what he liked to call practical intelligence. He hadn't read too many books, but he could navigate a ship with only the stars above his head to go by. He couldn't spout off scientific formulas, but he could bluff his way through a mean hand of poker. Yes, sir, he had practical intelligence, and plenty of it.

It was practical intelligence, the Skipper believed, that really got a man through life. For example, it told a man that when he had a choice between studying the history of tree surgery all day and spending (or even making) time with a beautiful starlet, he chose the starlet. Any dunce, he figured, knew that much. That was a cinch. A no-brainer. Yet it was a lesson that the Professor, with all his fancy degrees, was apparently never going to get through his thick skull.

Which explained why the Skipper was standing in the Professor's hut, watching the most drop-dead-gorgeous girl he'd ever seen get the brush-off from a man whose hottest date had probably been an Anatomy and Physiology textbook.

Ginger Grant stood posed at the center of the small room like Aphrodite come to Earth, hands on hips, hourglass curves straining to escape the confines of a glittering evening gown. "Hi Professor, Skipper," she greeted them, voice caressing each syllable. "I wanted to show you the new dress I made. Well, Mary Ann helped a little. Okay, a lot," she added with a laugh, doing a catwalk turn so they could take in the view from all angles. "What do you think?" Her silken smile included both men, but it didn't take a genius to see that it was sending two entirely different messages.

Unfortunately for her, the island's resident genius wasn't receiving. In fact, as far as the Skipper could tell, the Professor was on a totally different frequency altogether. He glanced up from the building plans they had been studying, shifted in his chair, mumbled something unintelligible and looked right back down again. By the Skipper's estimation, the entire exchange lasted perhaps five seconds. Ten, if he was feeling generous – which he wasn't. Not when he saw Ginger's face.

Hurt flickered briefly across the movie star's features, before she lifted her chin and expertly smoothed all traces of the emotion away. The Skipper wondered how much practice she'd had at smiling while she was completely rejected to her face. From what he'd gathered, the whole Hollywood game was pretty rough that way. Still, either she was losing her touch or he just knew her too well, because her act didn't fool him for a minute. Beneath the glamour queen veneer, she had the dejected air of a girl turned down at a Sadie Hawkins dance. Skipper fought the urge to hit the Professor with his hat. _Repeatedly._

Instead, he jumped into the breach. "Wow, Ginger! If Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships, you'd launch a _hundred _thousand!"

His reward was her smile – rueful and relieved at first, for the barest of seconds - but then dazzling. "Thanks, Skipper. What would a girl do without you?"

She stepped towards him, and the next thing he knew, his senses were under full-scale assault. Her arms slipped around his neck, the motion as fluid and liquid-cool as water. There was the scent of her perfume and, more subtle, of her hair. There was the feather-light touch of her lashes, the warm stir of her breath, the petal-soft brush of her lips against his cheek. The experience was heady enough to send him reeling, visions of sea nymphs and sirens swimming before his eyes. This, he imagined, was how the Greek sailors felt in the days of myth, as they were sung down from their ships to their doom.

Of course, the Skipper knew, he wasn't even the one she wanted. That role belonged to the other man in the room – the one apparently immune to her songs. The Skipper shot a look in his direction. What was Odysseus over there doing while his poor Calypso tried so hard to get his attention? Carrying on his red-hot love affair with the blueprints, that's what. Though the Skipper had watched variations on the same scene play over and over for nearly four years, the Professor's behavior never ceased to throw him. How could the man just sit there, casually throwing away something other men would sail to the ends of the earth for? _How?_

One thing, thought the Skipper with conviction, was for sure. If Ginger Grant looked at _him_ just once the way she looked at the Professor, he wouldn't be wasting any time acting on it. He knew, even if the Professor didn't, that she was something special and rare - and not just because of her beauty, either. He'd admit that had been the initial attraction, but over the years he'd learned that there was far more to her than met the eye. He'd learned that she was a woman who could look a typhoon in the face and not back down. He'd learned she was a woman who not only _would_ put her life on the line for a friend, but _had_.

He'd learned that she was the only woman in the world for him.

And that, thought the Skipper as Ginger eased herself out of his arms, was the bitterest lesson of all.

She was the only woman in the world for _him_, but he wasn't even the only man on the _island_ for her. Though she hadn't been unkind, she'd made it abundantly clear that the line between friend and lover was one she had no intention of letting him cross, just as she'd made it abundantly clear whom she would welcome across that line with open arms. He had thought many times of trying to win her in spite of it all. He maybe wasn't a prize catch, wasn't her first choice, but he was something, and a woman like her didn't go too long without a man. Surely, he'd reasoned, she couldn't wait forever for Poindexter to come around. She'd been flirting with him less and less as the years passed by, and eventually she'd give up entirely. Eventually, she'd change her mind.

In other circumstances, it might have worked. It might have worked if she had only to change her mind, and not her heart. It might have worked if Ginger were only attracted to the Professor and not in love with him.

But she was.

Of that, the Skipper had no doubt. He didn't consider himself an expert on the mysteries of the fairer sex, but he knew when a woman had that settling-down look. Back in his younger days, that look had been his signal to break things off with a girl double-quick, before things got complicated or feelings got hurt. Craving the freedom of the open sea, he hadn't been ready to drop anchor permanently. He'd assumed there would be plenty of time later to settle down, marry a nice girl, have a couple of kids maybe. Now time had caught up with him, and the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with – on the island or off it – wanted to spend hers with someone else.

The Skipper watched as that woman turned and left the hut, the door swinging closed behind her. He stood staring after her for a beat, her kiss cooling on his cheek, a strange brew of emotions mixing and roiling beneath the surface. Bliss, regret, frustration, anger, a dozen variations on each… and the next thing he knew, he was barreling over to the Professor's desk, his years of hard-won authority going all before him.

"Have you got rocks in your head or something?" he demanded, having no use for a preamble.

The Professor snapped to attention at last. "I beg your pardon!" he retorted with some heat, thwacking the blueprints onto the desk for emphasis.

The Skipper couldn't help but snort. The man looked like an affronted maiden aunt. "Professor, you may know everything there is to know about science and mathematics and languages and heaven knows what else, but you were absent the day they gave the lecture on _life_."

"Skipper, what exactly _is_ it that you're trying to say?"

"I'll explain it to you," said the Skipper, with the exaggerated show of patience he usually reserved for Gilligan. "That's a wonderful girl that just walked out of here, and you gave her a first-class brush-off."

The Professor had the good grace to look abashed at that. "Well, yes, I suppose I could have been more attentive just now. She may have interpreted my actions as rude, and -"

"She'd be right, but that's not the half of it. Don't you know that other men would give their right arm to be in your position?"

"My position?" The Professor looked utterly confused, his brow furrowing.

For a second, the Skipper just goggled at him. It wasn't like the Professor to play dumb, and anyway the man was a lousy actor. Was it possible that he didn't know Ginger was after him? Where had he _been_ for the past four years? The Skipper had always assumed he was aware of her attraction to him, but had his nose stuck too far into his books to do anything about it.

"Are you kidding me? You can't tell me you haven't noticed that Ginger has feelings for you. What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

"Skipper, I am well aware of her… flirtatious overtures. But you must realize that they are simply an expression of her innate personality, and do not indicate any exclusive or particular attraction." The Professor delivered all this as if by rote, crisply and without inflection.

"Overtures, maybe, but she's been playing you the entire opera!" Before the Professor could protest, Skipper went right on. "Listen to me. Back in the Navy, if a sailor had too much to drink on shore leave and couldn't pass muster, we sobered him up real quick by throwing him under a cold shower. Well, Professor, it's _your_ turn for a wake-up call. An ice-cold wake-up call.

"Ginger wants you. She's wanted you since we got here, or practically. That's the honest truth. If you don't want her back, that's your decision. It would make you the dumbest man on the planet, but that's your decision. But I'm telling you this. You're going to go out there right now and get things straightened out with her. If you want her, do something about it. If you don't, then tell her so she won't keep wasting her time."

For the first few seconds following the Skipper's lengthy diatribe, the Professor stood perfectly still, a funny sort of half-smile on his lips. In the next second, he was shaking his head, furiously pacing the length of the small room.

"I would look like a fool! If your theory is incorrect – it must be – I couldn't possibly – _she_ couldn't possibly – "

The Skipper rolled his eyes heavenward with a sigh. "Go after her. That's an order!"

"Well!" sputtered the Professor, indignant… but he went. He crossed the hut, reached out for the door… and then stopped, hand dropping limply by his side.

"Oh, what is it now?" the Skipper snapped. Honestly, he fumed inwardly, why did the Professor always have to be so mule-headed stubborn? Couldn't a guy at least have some peace and quiet while his heart was being smashed to smithereens? He was about to bark out his orders again when the Professor turned to face him.

The man appeared completely at sea, completely helpless. "Skipper, I don't know what to say to her!" he blurted out before sinking down into a nearby chair, elbows on knees. "Don't you see, I've… I've never known what to say to her."

Watching the confident, know-it-all Professor slump in defeat, the Skipper at once _did_ see. He'd had the Professor wrong, all wrong. It wasn't disinterest that kept him from Ginger. It was just plain old-fashioned fear – fear strong enough to make the most practical of men misinterpret years of evidence. No wonder he never responded to her _flirtatious overtures_, as he called them. To him, it would be like running towards paradise, only to find out it was just a mirage.

"Professor, exactly how long haven't you known what to say to her?"

The Professor stirred in his chair, looking as miserable as the Skipper felt. "I can't tell you exactly. Two years? Three? Four? Since the beginning? It all came on so gradually, and yet it seems that I've always known. How is that possible? It makes no logical sense."

"It makes sense enough," said the Skipper, with the tired certainty of a man whose fate is sealed.

The dynamic suddenly shifted between the two men, as the Skipper's bold determination seemed to transfer to the Professor. His shoulders straightened, his head lifted. When he met the Skipper's eye for the first time in several minutes, the Skipper saw something new there… something he had never seen in the Professor before.

"Skipper, you know about women. What do I tell her?"

The Skipper could have told him a hundred things to say.

_Tell her that her laugh is like music._

_Tell her that her smile is like coming home to port after a long, long voyage._

_Tell her she's a girl who could make a sailor forget the sea._

"Tell her you like her dress."

"That's all? How can -"

At that, the last frayed edge of the Skipper's patience gave way. A man could only take so much. "It'll be enough, Professor, trust me. Now get going!"

Weary and hurting, he caught the Professor by the shoulders and propelled him bodily through the door, shutting it behind him. The door's window was uncovered, and through it he could see the Professor stride out into the clearing, looking as if he were headed to the front lines instead of going to romance a woman. Maybe, the Skipper thought resignedly, the two were near enough the same.

The Professor had scarce reached the center of the clearing when he encountered the opposition. Ginger entered the clearing a second after he did, her eyes fixed on the radio which sat on the communal table. At her sudden appearance, the Professor's determined bearing was thrown to the four winds.

"Uh, Ginger!" he stammered inelegantly, folding his arms tightly against his chest. "I was just coming to look for you." The tropical breeze carried his voice to the ears of the Skipper, who remained in the hut. He wanted to leave, wanted to shut out the scene before him, but found himself unable to tear away.

Ginger's face took on a quizzical expression. "What is it, Professor?"

The Professor continued, managing to regain some composure. "I want to apologize for my inattentiveness before. It was abominably rude of me. And also… I wanted to tell you that your dress is… well, it's most becoming."

The effect of those words was instantaneous. Even from his vantage point, the Skipper could see Ginger's face light up, bright as a tracer. "Why, Professor," she said, nearly purring with delight. "I didn't think you'd noticed."

His confidence seemed to grow from her response. "On the contrary. I've made a thorough catalogue of all your attire. Though this ensemble is stunning, I have to admit a preference for your blue beaded gown. It acts as such a tremendously effective counterpoint to the precise shade of your hair. I tend to be especially drawn to complementary rather than analogous color schemes.

"That's just a matter of personal preference of course," he went on in a rush. "Not that you don't always – that is to say – you're an exemplary specimen of the female…uh… species."

There was a beat, and then Ginger's laughter filled the clearing – not mocking, but joyful and indulgent. "Professor, are you trying to tell me that you like me?"

"I believe so, yes. _Yes_. Just not very eloquently, I'm afraid."

"I think you said it just fine."

The Professor heaved a sigh, shoulders relaxing. "You do?"

"Mmm-hmm. And you want to know something else? You're a pretty exemplary specimen, yourself."

At that, the Professor let out a sound that was something between a nervous laugh and a cough. "Ginger," he said, "I need to examine some rock formations down by the cove before it gets dark. Would you do me the honour of… would you care to accompany me?"

"I'd love to," she replied softly.

He held out an elbow in her general direction, and though the angle was stiff and awkward, she gamely looped her arm through his as best she could. Before they had walked a dozen steps that way, though, something… _changed_, right before the Skipper's eyes. Their arms relaxed, came down to their sides. Hand found hand and fingers intertwined. It all happened without a look, without a word – as unprompted and natural as breathing. Side-by-side and hand-in-hand, they went off into the jungle.

The Skipper was left behind, alone with his thoughts in the empty hut.

He sat down heavily in the chair the Professor had left, one word thrumming through his brain. _Why?_ Why had he done it? Was it because he loved Ginger enough to put her happiness above his own? Was it because he didn't want the Professor to make the same mistake he had, keeping love at bay until it was too late? Those were noble reasons, and he wished he could claim they were true. Maybe they _were_ true, partly. Only partly.

Because really, it all came down to practical intelligence.

Practical intelligence had told him that it was no use holding off the inevitable. It was better to embrace it, rather than to deny it and prolong the pain.

Only now his heart told him that in embracing the inevitable, he'd dashed his dreams on the rocks.

Practical intelligence had told him that it was no use pining over a woman who didn't want him. Even if one day she'd had to settle for him, going through life as her second or hundredth or thousandth choice was a ticket to sure-fire misery.

Only now his heart told him that none of that mattered, because having part of her was better than having none at all.

For the first time in his life, practical intelligence had failed Skipper Jonas Grumby.

Practical intelligence couldn't do anything to fix a broken heart.


End file.
